“Let’s go,” she said, hurrying toward the livery.
* * * *
When they reached her home, Lucille didn’t wait for Tom to help her down. “Don’t bother.” She waved him away and climbed down from the wagon. “And don’t even think about a good-night kiss. There’s isn’t time for that.” Wrapping her cloak around her trembling shoulders, she ran toward the front door.
Lamplight burned from inside the house. Lucille let herself in as quietly as possible and hurried to draw a bath. Every second that ticked by increased the odds of the night turning to disaster.
After what seemed forever, she threw off her clothes and slipped into the welcome relief of a hot bath, scrunching down into the deep tub so that the water covered nearly every inch of her body from her toes up to the neck. She washed, she scrubbed, she silently cursed, and all the while, she cried.
When a knock sounded at the door, she shrieked.
“Honey?” Her mother’s voice held a note of alarm. “What’s wrong? What are you doing home so early? And what are you doing in there? Are you all right?”
Dear Lord, she knows what I’ve done!
“I-I had a headache.” She grabbed the same convenient lie she’d used before. “I had Tom bring me home early. I-I thought a hot bath might ease the pain.”
Yes, she knows exactly what happened.
“Should I fix a pot of tea?”
Lucille held her breath, then let it out. “Yes, Mother. Tea would be lovely.”
A short time later, fastening her robe around her waist, Lucille slipped into the kitchen. She accepted the hot tea, enjoying the comforting fragrance of the herbal concoction. Chamomile. Lemon balm. A touch of peppermint. Usually such a brew would have her sleeping in minutes. She doubted anything would help her sleep tonight.
“Is everything all right, honey?” Her mother studied her closely. “Between you and Tom, I mean? Is there anything we need to talk about?”
Lucille gripped the teacup. “There is nothing between Tom and me.”
“Oh, I think there must be a little attraction between the two of you, otherwise I doubt he would have asked you to the dance, and you certainly wouldn’t have accepted the invitation. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Lucille.”
“I’m only seeing him because of Faith. We’ve agreed it would be good for us to be friends, that’s all.”
Her mother patted her hand. “Yes, of course. Whatever you say, dear.” She smiled. “Whenever you need to talk about it, I’ll be here.”
Chapter Twelve
“You’re watching that door again, honey.”
Only two days remained before Christmas, and business at the shop was flourishing. For the last week, a steady stream of customers had come to the dressmaking establishment. Women came to purchase fabrics and skeins of wool to use in their own gift-making. Men came in to the shop looking for ribbons and bows to buy for wives and girlfriends. Even children stopped in with pennies in their hands, wanting cards of buttons to give as presents.
With so many customers each day, Lucille and her mother had once again begun working side by side. They’d brought dozens of quilts and blankets to the shop along with lots of toys to entertain Faith. She sat contently in the corner, fascinated by the colorful wooden tops Tom had given her.
Yes, Lucille had been watching the door, but she didn’t want to admit it.
“I thought I heard someone.” She looked down and pretended to concentrate on the sewing in her lap.
“It’s Tom you’re watching for, isn’t it?”
“No, of course not.” Lucille shifted restlessly on her sewing bench. “I’ve just got things on my mind, that’s all.”
“I can tell. You haven’t sewed a single stitch in the last twenty minutes. I’ve been watching,” she said with a laugh. “Those socks won’t mend themselves, you know.”
Lucille picked up the woolen stockings she held on her lap. The ones she was supposed to have darned and ready to pick up that morning. With a shake of her head, she tossed them into a wicker basket.
“I’ll finish them later. I need a little break.”
Ever since the holiday dance, she’d found it difficult—no, impossible—to keep her mind on such mundane matters as repairing the heels of some miner’s socks, or turning some cowboy’s shirt collar. Unless, of course, that cowboy happened to be Tom Henderson. She would gladly turn his collars, sew on his buttons, and stitch up any rips in his trousers.
The thought of the tall man with the muscular legs and powerful thighs brought a rush of heat, like a sudden wildfire sweeping through a thick forest, burning everything it touched.
Her mother cocked her head. “Something has got you flustered. Are you sure it’s got nothing to do with Tom Henderson?”
How could she help but think of the man and the pleasures they’d shared? That smile of his and those dimples! It was positively unfair that any one man should possess so many charms to use against a hapless woman.
“All right, yes, I was thinking about him,” she admitted. “I was hoping he might stop by.” She hesitated, waiting for her mother’s response, expecting a bit of criticism. After all, the rugged cowboy had little to offer a woman in the way of security or stability. He was not the sort of man a decent woman should associate with. Her mother made no reply, however, and Lucille rushed on. “I mean, I thought it might be nice if he came by to see Faith.”
“Honey, you don’t need to be embarrassed about what you’re feeling. I can tell you’ve taken a shine to him.”
“He’s not at all what I thought, Mama. I know he’s not educated, but he is intelligent. Not only that, but he’s actually quite pleasant to be around.”
“And as handsome as they come, that’s for sure.” Her mother’s laughter made Lucille feel more at ease. “I can’t say I blame you for swooning a bit. If I were your age—” Her words were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the front stoop of the little shop. The woman laughed again. “Speak of the devil,” she said in a low voice, leaning close to her daughter. “That’s how it goes with those devilish handsome men. Sometimes just thinking…”
Lucille shook her head. She’d already glanced toward the window and caught sight of a short, rotund old man bundled in a thick jacket and fur cap. A straggly white beard peeked over the edges of a heavy woolen scarf.
“It’s not Tom.” She rose from her chair as the door burst open and the fat, red-cheeked fellow pushed through, clutching a leather pouch in his gloved hands. Had he been dressed in red, she might have mistaken him for the legendary Kris Kringle. She loved the drawings Thomas Nast made of Santa Claus, and looked forward to seeing them each year in the winter issues of Harper’s. But Santa Claus was not real.
This man was very real. Lucille choked back a sudden fear. “A courier, Mama,” she whispered, gripping her mother’s arm. “Probably from Denver.”
Judge Morse must have come to a decision regarding her petition.
Thank goodness her mother managed to keep her wits about her, because Lucille couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t even draw a breath.
It could be good news. It could be very good news.
She tried to bolster her spirits. For weeks she’d waited for this moment. Now that it had arrived, she was too scared to face it.
Her mother hurried to greet the visitor. “Good afternoon, sir. Please, step inside out of the cold.” She gestured toward the cheery stove. “Sit and warm yourself a spell. You’ve come from Denver?” she asked. “A long way,” she continued when he gave a short nod. “You have a message for us, I believe.” The smile upon her face showed her confidence. Judge Morse, she insisted, was a wise man, a good and fair judge. He’d made a dreadful mistake before, and now he would surely correct his error. Mrs. Triplett had assured her that she and Lucille would soon be welcoming someone into their home and family.
Lucille couldn’t smile. Not until she had the message in her hand. Not until she’d read it and knew for certain that Judge Morse
had reconsidered. The reassurances of a woman claiming to speak to the dead meant nothing.
Of course, common sense should prevail. Judge Morse would do the right thing. Under the circumstances, no man in his right mind would allow Tom and his mother to keep Faith.
Lucille crossed the shop to join her mother. “Good afternoon, sir. I’m Lucille McIntyre. I believe your message is addressed to me.”
“Yes, Miss McIntyre.” He tipped his cap toward her, then fumbled with the deep pockets of his pouch. “Mighty inclement weather we’re having today. Made for a very long ride out here.” He drew an envelope from the bag and held it out to Lucille. She accepted it with trembling hands.
For a moment, she held it, turning it over and over. She noted the official seal. Signed, sealed, and delivered. A formality.
She slowly walked across the store.
Behind her, the red-cheeked man got to his feet. “I’ll be on my way now. Good day, ladies.”
Lucille whirled around. “Aren’t you supposed to wait? Don’t you need to take a reply back to the court?” Surely Judge Morse would want to meet with everyone involved. Most likely there would be papers to sign, agreements to be made.
“No, ma’am.” He wrapped the scarf around his neck and headed for the door. “My instructions were only to deliver the message, nothing more.”
“Let me give you something for your time and trouble.” Again, it was her mother, not Lucille, who stepped in to handle the situation. She fished through a little glass bowl near the sewing machine. It held pins, needles, and a few pennies, along with other assorted items. “You’re more than welcome to sit a spell longer.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got more notices to deliver. I’d best be on my way, ma’am.” He touched a hand to his fur cap and bustled out the door. A gust of bitterly cold wind blew in around him.
Lucille shuddered and moved closer to the stove. “I’ll open this now,” she said in a quiet voice. “Hand me those scissors, I’ll use them.”
“Maybe we should sit down first,” Olive suggested, getting the cutting implement for her daughter. “Let me get Faith, too. I’m afraid there’s a dreadful chill in the air here now. I need to bundle her up a bit.”
“Yes, bring Faith over. We’ll all sit here together where it’s warm.” Lucille’s heart pounded. With great care, she cut open the flap, then drew the folded paper from the envelope. She looked up, shook the missive open, then sucked in a huge gulp of breath. She spread the letter across her lap and cast her eyes downward.
“It’s from Judge Morse, all right.” She beamed, cleared her throat, and began reading the words in a strong, clear voice. “Having reviewed the petition filed by Miss Lucille McIntyre, a single woman, in the matter of Baby Girl Lafferty…” She stopped and shook her head. “Her name is Faith, Mama! Can’t he even get that right?” Scoffing, she quickly thought how fortunate it would be to have the precious child. No one would call her Baby Girl again. She returned her attention to the missive, repeating the last few words as she found her place. “…it is the decision of this court that the petitioner is not legally qualified to file a request for custody…” Her voice trailed off. “What does he mean?” As the words sunk into her brain, she looked up. “Mama, what’s he talking about? Why does he say I’m not legally qualified? I’m a citizen of the United States. I was born here, Mama, and that gives me rights.”
Her mother took the official notice and scanned the details. “You’re a woman, Lucille, and a single one, at that. According to Judge Morse, that doesn’t make you fit to raise a child.”
“That’s ridiculous! Look at how many women end up raising children alone. After that awful unpleasantness of the war, Mama, there were thousands of women who’d lost their husbands. They managed to bring up their children.”
“Judge Morse doesn’t see it that way.”
“Well, he’s wrong, Mama.” She jumped from the chair, and swung into action, spinning through the shop like a whirlwind. She grabbed her cloak, slipped it on, pulled up the fur-lined hood, and rushed to the door.
“Honey, what—”
“There’s no time to talk,” Lucille interrupted. “If I leave now, I can get to Denver before sundown and…”
“And what will you do once you get there?” Olive remained calm and serene, holding Faith close on her lap. “I’m sure there’s been a mistake. Mrs. Triplett assured me we’ll be able to keep Faith. Officially,” she added. “She told me in no uncertain terms, Lucille, our family is going to grow.”
“I don’t want to hear another word about Mrs. Triplett. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” She shot a sharp gaze toward the door. “Neither does that ignoramus calling himself a federal judge. I wish I could vote, Mama. I’d make sure a better man were elected.”
“Now who’s talking nonsense?” Mama laughed. “You do get carried away, honey. That’s one thing you need to learn. A woman has to remember her place in the world.”
“A woman’s place is to make a home for her family! To care for her children, but that judge doesn’t even realize…” She pulled her cloak tighter. “I’m going out, Mama.”
* * * *
Tom rode into Sunset early that afternoon. He’d spent the morning out at Leland’s place, doing the necessary chores and checking the water pump to make sure it could withstand another blast of wintry air. Reluctantly, he’d given in and agreed to accept a small wage from the man. Since Josh Barron had laid off the extra hands at the J Bar K, Tom needed another steady source of income. Goose still talked about the wild horses he’d seen in the valley. Maybe it was time to get serious about that dream of his, like Leland kept telling him.
Right here. Right now.
He knew he’d find Goose at the Red Mule. Lupita worked there during the day serving the kick-in-the-head whiskey that had given the saloon its name and reputation. Tom grinned. Maybe later he’d drop in at Lucille’s shop, too.
He dismounted then led Dandy into the corral behind the livery. Sure enough, Goose’s painted pony was among the horses. A man could usually figure out who was in town by looking at the livery, and as often as not, it wasn’t too hard to figure out who was where. Sure as shooting, he’d find the Mexican sparking with Lupita at the Red Mule.
As he turned the corner, a flash of color exploded around him. Colliding head-on with a green-cloaked figure, he stepped back, then drew up in surprise.
“Lucille? You’re sure in a heck of a hurry. Is something wrong?”
She clutched the edges of her cloak, re-adjusting the garment around her shapely shoulders. Her deep brown eyes looked troubled.
“I have to talk to you. It’s important.”
“All right. Is there somewhere we can go?” Tom ached to have her in his arms, to draw her close and shelter her from the chill winter’s breath closing in around them. “What about your shop?”
“No, Mama’s there. I need to talk to you privately.” She ended on a whisper, lowering her gaze and looking away. “We have to get married.”
Tom’s breath stopped. For a minute, he thought his heart had stopped, too, but then it started beating wild and hard in his chest. Ever since the night of the dance, he’d worried this might happen.
“Have you told anyone? Are you sure?” he asked, choking back more emotions than he knew how to handle.
Lucille’s nose crinkled, and her mouth dropped open. “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant. I’m not in the family way.”
“Are you sure?”
Her face turned several shades of red. “Absolutely certain.” She stared down at the ground.
“You said we had to get married.”
“Yes, for Faith! Don’t you see what I’m talking about?” She hugged her cloak tighter. “I’m not asking you to love me, Tom. It’s got nothing to do with love…or lovemaking.” The color in her cheeks deepened. “It’s the only way we can guarantee a home for Faith. It’s a way for us to keep her. If we’re married, if we’re a family, if we can pro
vide her a real home…”
Now his mouth opened, but words wouldn’t come up. He managed to nod.
“Like it or not, it’s the only way,” she whispered.
Damn but she was right. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?
“When? How? I mean, what are we supposed to do? Don’t you ladies need time to plan a wedding?”
“The sooner, the better. I can make a wedding dress in a few days. I’m a seamstress. It’s what I do.”
“I suppose I could talk to Reverend Gilman.” Tom looked up. “You do want to get married in the church, don’t you?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought,” she said, biting her lip. She seemed to turn shy now. “Probably a good idea. Yes, if we’re going to get married, we should do it in church.”
“I’ll go into town and make arrangements tomorrow. About two weeks?”
“Let’s make it three.”
“All right.”
Lucille’s hands were encased in thick, woolen mittens that scratched his jaw when she reached up and pressed one against his cheeks. He jerked his head, and she let her hand fall away.
“I can see you’re not too happy about the idea,” she said.
“To tell the truth, I don’t think it’s quite sunk in yet, if you know what I mean.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t expect much from you. It won’t be a real marriage.”
“We’ll live together, won’t we?”
“Yes, I suppose, but—”
“Where?” He scratched at his jaw again. It still itched from those damned woolen mittens. “I reckon we’ll have to live with Ma.”
Her jaw dropped. She stared up at him, her eyes wide. “Absolutely not,” she protested. “We’ll stay with my mother.”
He shook his head. “No. That’s where I draw the line. If we’re going to get married, I’m going to be the head of the house. I’m not moving in and expecting your mother to take care of us.”
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